


on the nature of daylight

by laurxnts



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Auguste is still dead sorry about that, Beauxbatons, Beauxbatons!Laurent, Canon Typical Warnings, Canon-Typical Violence, Durmstrang, Durmstrang!Damen, Hogwarts AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10342986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/pseuds/laurxnts
Summary: He hears the word Durmstrang from behind him, and Laurent’s stomach twists. He knows Durmstrang, and this must be their arrival. He has known for weeks that Durmstrang would be joining them here for the tournament, and for weeks Laurent has told himself that when they come, he will be ready. He’s been waiting for this moment since Auguste’s exchange program four years ago, and Laurent stares at the ship as it moves across the lake, carrying Damianos Theomedes with it; the man who killed his brother.-Four years ago, Auguste de Vere died on an exchange program at Durmstrang Institute, and four years ago, Laurent had sworn to get revenge on the man responsible. Now, at sixteen, when Laurent's name is pulled from the goblet at the triwizard tournament despite him being too young to enter, Laurent might finally get that moment of revenge he has been preparing himself for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beauxbatons!Laurent has always been my favourite HP headcanon for Laurent and, after seeing it said by Pacat herself on twitter today, I got inspired to write something. Durmstrang Damen wasn't even something I considered until she suggested it in reply to me on twitter, so I guess this was born. The title is inspired by the instrumental track I listened to on repeat while writing this chapter, specifically the piano cover of it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFXwP0zZwDA)  
> Thank you to emma / [casscaixn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/casscaixn) for being my beta as always!

**Prologue**

 

i.

The rain lashes down heavy and hard against the glass windows of the carriage as it flies over the vast expanse of British countryside, and Laurent lets out a breath of amusement at the streaking against the glass. He’d read in books lined up in Uncle’s library that he should expect a lot of rain during the next year, but he had not expected it to be raining _already._ He rests his temple against the glass, letting his breath fog against it, and looks out at the view. Across from him, Nicaise is complaining about the weather; about the prospect of being so far from the mansion for a whole year, and Uncle is replying; saccharine smooth reassurances that twist Laurent’s stomach. He shifts closer to the window, and blocks out everything from the carriage around him.

Beyond the carriage, he hears the horses cry out in protest as another gust of wind rattles them, and the driver casts another spell to keep them on track. There are barely any students in this compartment of the carriage; it’s Uncle’s private section, since he is the headmaster of Beauxbatons, and the only students in here are Laurent, Nicaise, and a girl two years his senior, accompanied by three of her friends. Her name is Fleur, if Laurent remembers correctly, and she’s been chosen by the teachers as their main candidate for the tournament—it’s the reason she was granted a seat in Uncle’s compartment.

Laurent and Nicaise, however, are not even old enough to be travelling to Hogwarts, but Uncle had made an exception for them.

The endless green expanse of countryside starts to splinter, then; littered with fragments of towns and settlements before breaking into the wide surface of a lake; tremulous and wild from the weather. He knows the lake; he’s seen it in textbooks when he was reading about Hogwarts, trying to get a better idea of what to expect. Laurent shifts in his seat, angling for a better look at the place he is supposed to call home for the next ten months. It looks as it did in the photographs, and Laurent deems it far less luxurious than Beauxbatons with it’s pristine marble and intricate spires, but it’s—adequate. The grounds themselves seem bigger than the ones at Beauxbatons and Laurent figures it might be interesting to explore, even if the quality of the castle itself does not fit Beauxbatons standards. Laurent does not care; Beauxbatons’ extravagance was chosen by Uncle, and the teachers before him, not by Laurent himself.

“Nephew,” Uncle says, and Laurent forces himself not to react. He turns his gaze to his uncle, cool and indifferent, and leans back in the blue upholstered seat.

“Yes, Uncle?” Laurent replies, and inspects a speck of dirt on his uniform.

“You don’t seem very excited about this trip,” Uncle sighs, disappointment lacing his tone. Beside him, Nicaise is entertaining himself with a deck of cards and his wand. “Aren’t you grateful that I brought you?”

Laurent blinks slowly, and keeps his gaze even. His pulse betrays him, and Laurent is thankful for the sleeves of his uniform, and the high collar, so that Uncle cannot see his pulse beating beneath too-fine skin. “Yes, Uncle. Thank you.”

The carriage lurches, then, and Laurent only just manages to stop himself from shifting out of his seat. Laurent turns his gaze back to the window once he is sure that he has satisfied Uncle with his answer, and watches as the carriage makes its descent down to the grounds of Hogwarts. The rain and wind seem a little less intense the further down they get, and Laurent thinks he might not have to cast a charm to keep himself dry after all.

The door to the carriage is pulled open by one of Hogwarts’ staff members, and Uncle steps out carefully, offering Nicaise his hand to help him with the drop from the carriage to the ground. Laurent averts his gaze, and steps out of the carriage after him. He sees Nicaise twist his wand, Vanishing the pack of cards he’d been playing with, and Laurent smirks.

He leans down slightly as they walk and drops his voice. “You’re not supposed to use magic outside of the classroom. You are thirteen.”

Nicaise gives him a look. “Fuck off. I can do whatever I like.”

Almost as if to prove his point, Nicaise points his wand and mutters a spell under his breath. Ahead of them, one of the students stumbles, as if tripping over some sort of invisible object, and falls down into the wet, muddy grass. Laurent smiles, and Nicaise lifts his chin, pocketing his wand.

“I told you,” Nicaise says.

“You are going to get in trouble,” Laurent mutters, and Nicaise huffs a breath of amusement.

“No, I won’t,” Nicaise says, childish arrogance lacing his tone. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He likes me. I’m allowed to do whatever I want.”

Laurent exhales, and does not bother to reply. On the ground, the castle looks bigger and Laurent tilts his chin to look up at it as it towers above him. Its dark brickwork stands out in counterpoint to the pale, milky sky but it does not make it look any more impressive. If anything, it looks gloomy, but Laurent thinks the change of scenery might be nice.

“I miss France,” Nicaise complains. “I think that this place looks like shit.”

There’s a rumble of something that sounds like thunder in the air, and Laurent looks up at the clouds above them for some sign of the worsening weather. The students around him stop, gathering in some sort of cluster, and Laurent wonders what could possibly make them want to linger in the awful, approaching storm.

It’s not thunder, Laurent realises, when he hears the rumble again. It’s coming from the lake.

The surface of the water ripples, waves sloshing against the edge where the cluster of students are standing, and Laurent pushes his way forward until he is standing at the front—regrettably, next to his uncle. The water breaks and something emerges from its depths; huge and foreboding, dripping with water. It’s a ship; a _huge_ ship. Laurent stares, and around him some of the students start muttering things, some excitedly, but most of all the consensus amongst the students is disgust.

He hears the word _Durmstrang_ from behind him, and Laurent’s stomach twists. He knows Durmstrang, and this must be their arrival. He has known for weeks that Durmstrang would be joining them here for the tournament, and for weeks Laurent has told himself that when they come, he will be ready. He’s been waiting for this moment since Auguste’s exchange program four years ago, and Laurent stares at the ship as it moves across the lake, carrying Damianos Theomedes with it; the man who killed his brother.

 

* * *

 

ii.

The Great Hall of Hogwarts is mercifully warmer than outside; bathed in candlelight and surrounded by thick, ancient stone walls that leave the tremulous wind outside nothing but a distant howl. Any comfort Laurent might have found in that is broken by the noise of the interior; hundreds of Hogwarts students muttering excitedly as Laurent and the other Beauxbatons students file in taking their place on the table set out especially for them. At least half of the students are looking specifically at him, and Laurent knows why; he can read their lips well enough to know that they’re muttering Auguste’s name.

Laurent averts his gaze from their prying eyes and turns his attention to the thick, carved doors of the hall. He’s never seen Damianos in the flesh, but he’s seen his photo plastered on the front pages of every wizarding newspaper and magazine more times than he can count. Damianos, who rose to fame at only fourteen; Damianos, who was celebrated and adored by wizards all through Durmstrang and despised by wizards all across Beauxbatons; Damianos, who murdered Auguste de Vere when he was only fourteen, and Auguste had been seventeen—Beauxbatons best student, and Laurent’s older brother. Laurent knows what his face looks like.

Uncle sits down at the staff table at the front of the hall, dressed in blood red robes that always stand out in counterpoint to Beauxbatons’ soft blue. Beside him, there’s a stool for Nicaise, and Laurent swallows around the feeling in his throat. He wonders what Uncle told them, when he requested a seat at the table for Nicaise. Laurent turns to look back at the doors, and waits.

He hears Durmstrang before he sees them; a loud and abrasive clamouring in the corridors beyond that cuts through the chatter of the hall like a knife edge, and leaves them all descending into an apprehensive silence. Laurent straightens, tilts his chin, and prepares himself. The doors swing open with more force than necessary and the Durmstrang students start filing in, carrying staffs and draped in rich, thick furs that have Laurent rolling his eyes at the indulgence of it all.

Damianos is at the back of the line of students, walking side by side with the headmaster like he is some sort of prize. Laurent supposes he is, and hatred burns deep in the pit of his gut when he takes in the sight of him. He’s tall and thick-built, eighteen months Laurent’s senior, and easily capable of holding Laurent down if he wanted to. But Laurent is not going to let him; he knows how to fight a man like Damianos; he has been training for years. Around him, the Beauxbatons students start muttering under their breaths, tension rippling through the crowd, and the one word that carries is ‘ _murderer.’_

Just before he takes his seat, Damianos’ eyes scan the crowd and, for a moment, Laurent swears they linger on him. A curl of hatred twists in his stomach, and Laurent stares at him and reminds himself of every single spell he learnt simply to take him down. He could do it now, if he wanted to—stand up in the hall and raise his wand, muttering those two words under his breath. Damianos would not even stand a chance, and then it would be over, and Laurent will have killed him like he always promised himself he would. His fingers brush his wand in his robes, and the hatred swirling in his mind begs him to do it.

Laurent does not move.

“ _Silence,”_ the headmaster of Hogwarts calls, and the crowd descends into an uneasy silence, littered with whispers and mutterings. He begins some speech that Laurent does not bother to listen to, just like he never listens when it’s Uncle at the front of the crowd. He tilts his chin up and watches the rain cascade across the enchanted ceiling, and thinks about Damianos. And Auguste.

The triwizard tournament is explained and introduced, but Laurent already knows everything about it; knows because he’d researched it out of pure curiosity, and because he knew it was one of the only chances he would have of coming face to face with the man who killed his brother. Students have to be seventeen to enter, and Laurent is only sixteen, but it doesn’t matter. He does not need the tournament to challenge Damianos; he will find another way to seek him out and duel him. If everything he knows about Damianos is correct, then he will not turn down the opportunity to fight.

The headteachers of the schools are introduced, and Laurent lets his eyes flicker to Damianos when they call out his uncle’s name; begging to see some sort of reaction on his face at the words ‘ _de Vere_ _’._ He’s granted with no such pleasure; Damianos’ eyes are fixed on the wooden table. Laurent’s stomach twists again, and his fingers curl around the end of his wand.

When dinner is eventually served, Laurent is not hungry. The students around him erupt into chatter; talking about nothing but Damianos and Auguste, and it makes Laurent feel sick. He knows how the rest of Beauxbatons feel about Damianos; knows that his animosity is shared amongst them, but it does not make him feel any better. Auguste had been their bright, golden idol; an unmovable presence amongst them. He had been their head boy; seeker for their international quidditch team, loved and adored by everybody, but by no one more than Laurent himself. It shouldn’t have been _possible_ that he would be killed in a classroom duel on an exchange program, by a boy roughly four years his junior. And yet. And yet the news had came, and Auguste’s body had been sent home, and that bright, golden presence had gone.

Across the hall, Damianos eats.

 

* * *

 

iii.

The entry for the tournament is open for only a few days, and Laurent spends most of it in the hall with the goblet, anticipating the moment that Damianos will enter his name. He doesn’t know why he does it; it’s rather masochistic to wait around for a glimpse of the man he hates, but Laurent waits anyway. He learns, over the course of the few days, that there are no other Durmstrang students entering their names. Damianos has already been chosen as their champion, and Laurent is not surprised. A man who could brutally murder another at only fourteen is bound to be their most adored student; bound to be their best chance of winning. It does, however, mean that Laurent does not see any Durmstrang students for days.

“Are you planning to enter your name?” a girl’s voice comes from in front of him, and Laurent slowly closes his book in favour of looking up at her. She’s a Hogwarts student, judging from the uniform and the green scarf looped around her neck. Laurent raises an eyebrow. “Sorry. Hi. I’m Vannes. You’re—Laurent, right? I know you.”

Of course. Everybody does.

Laurent nods, and then watches her as she sits down beside him. She peers at him, expectantly, and that’s when Laurent realises he did not answer her question.

“No,” he says, eventually. “I am only sixteen.”

“Oh,” she says, and nods. “So am I. It sucks, right? I wanted to enter, but I’m not seventeen for another three months.”

“I’m not interested in entering,” Laurent says, and leafs open his book again, turning his attention back to the page. The book is filled with foreign spells and Laurent tries to memorise each one; in case Damianos hits him with an unknown one, like he did with Auguste.

“You’re in here every day,” Vannes inspects her nails, like she’s certain of her deduction. “You must have some reason for being so interested in the tournament.”

Laurent doesn’t bother to give her an answer.

“I thought maybe they’d make an exception for you,” Vannes says after a long period of silence. Laurent glances up at her briefly, and wills her to go away. “Since your brother was famous, and your uncle is the headteacher.”

“Well,” Laurent says slowly. “They didn’t. Is that everything, or was there something else you wanted?”

Vannes opens her mouth to reply, and then closes it, almost stunned. “No, I—whatever. That was everything, I guess.”

“Good,” Laurent says indifferently, waving his hand to dismiss her. “Then you can leave me alone.”

“Alright,” she says slowly, mildly affronted, collecting her books in her arms. “See you around.”

Damianos does not enter his name until three hours before curfew on the final night. He’s followed by a crowd of Durmstrang students who cheer when the goblet swallows his folded piece of paper, and the headteacher who hugs him in adoration when Damianos steps carefully back over the age line. Laurent wonders what would happen if he killed Damianos here; wonders if his adoring crowd would kill Laurent in retaliation. Laurent wonders if it would be worth it.

The crowd around Damianos babbles at him, chanting things, but he does not seem to be listening. Instead, his gaze seems to be fixed—on _Laurent,_ and Laurent’s breath catches in his throat. He wonders if it’s guilt that’s written on Damianos’ expression; remorse over laying eyes on Auguste’s little brother, but Laurent quickly dismisses the thought. People like him do not feel remorse for the bad things they have done; it was Uncle that taught him that. Killing and hurting others comes easily to men like Damianos, and Laurent wonders if this prolonged moment of eye contact is Damianos gloating; basking in the horror of what he did all those years ago. Laurent stares at him, holds the gaze, and hopes that with it he conveys all of the hatred he feels in the pit of his gut.

Damianos’ expression fractures for a moment, splintering into something Laurent cannot make sense of, and then he is gone, swept away by his adoring crowd. Laurent tightens his fingers around the pages of his book, and slams it shut.

 

* * *

 

iv.

The Halloween banquet is ridiculously over-extravagant. Laurent arrives early, in some attempt to avoid the chattering in the corridors and the array of eyes on him when he enters, and some self-destructive hope that he will get to see Damianos as he enters, and takes his place at the table. Uncle is stood near the front and beckons Laurent over when he sees him; Laurent thinks about disobeying, about ignoring him and taking his seat at the table instead, but he doesn’t. Of course.

“Are you looking forward to the announcements tonight?” Uncle says, and his hand rests on Laurent’s shoulder, his fingertips at the base of Laurent’s neck. Laurent forces himself to weather the touch. “I think it will be interesting to see who is picked for our school, don’t you?”

Laurent tilts his chin to look up at his Uncle. “Yes. And for Durmstrang. I think it will be Damianos.”

“Ah,” Uncle sighs, and there’s—pity in his voice. Concern. He’s not concerned; Laurent knows it is fake. “Yes. Damianos. It is difficult to see him here, isn’t it?”

Laurent presses his teeth together and forces himself not to react. “Yes.”

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Uncle says, and Laurent frowns. “If Auguste had been here, he would be the perfect candidate for the tournament. He always excelled at everything.”

Auguste would be too old by now to enter the tournament, but if he wasn’t, then Uncle is right. He would have been the perfect candidate; Auguste was good at everything, and Laurent knows that Auguste would accept the prize with all the modesty and courtesy that he so effortlessly carried with him.

“I know,” Laurent replies, and hopes that if he keeps agreeing, Uncle will let him go back to his seat. As if on cue, Damianos enters through the grand doors, followed by a group of his friends. Laurent’s eyes track him as he finds his seat. “I hope that Damianos dies in the tournament. It would be fitting.”

“Nephew,” Uncle says disapprovingly, and lets go of Laurent’s shoulder. “You’re too old to be holding childish grudges like that.”

Laurent lets out a breath, and knows it is the end of their conversation. “Yes, Uncle.”

He does not eat for the entire feast; too apprehensive for the announcement that will follow when the food is spelled away, and the goblet is brought in. He knows that Damianos will be picked, but his skin still itches with impatience; he wants to hear his name called, see him walk to the front and accept the title with arrogance and honour that he should not have. _He should be dead,_ Laurent thinks, _Auguste should have killed him._

On the head table, Nicaise feasts on more food than he should be able to stomach, and Laurent watches the way that all of the staff carefully avoid looking at the boy; as if acknowledging his presence will spark one too many questions in their minds. Laurent’s thumb brushes over the knife on the table and thinks about driving it into Damianos’ body;  _this is all his fault._

Silence descends over the crowds almost as soon as the food is spelled away, and Laurent straightens in his seat. Beside him, one of the students mutters to her friend, something about Damianos, and Laurent resists the urge to drive the knife into her instead. The Hogwarts champion is called first; a man named ‘Charls Merchant’ who Laurent has never heard of before. He wears a yellow and black scarf around his neck, and Laurent knows from his research that those are the colours of Hufflepuff. Laurent wonders how well someone loyal and honourable will favour in a tournament against a man as barbaric as Damianos. Laurent almost pities him. He looks far too happy to be walking to the front, shaking hands with all of the headteachers in turn, and Laurent wonders if he has any idea what he is up against. He watches Charls shake hands with his uncle, push up his thick-rimmed glasses, and then he is out of the hall through one of the side doors.

The flames in the goblet twist through the air, licking up the sides of the metal, and Laurent watches as it spits out the Durmstrang paper. He inhales a soft breath, and waits for the paper to flutter down into the teacher’s hand.

_“Damianos Theomedes.”_

Of course. Laurent had expected no less, and yet the preparation had done nothing to lessen the twist in his gut as Damianos’ name is called, and the Durmstrang table erupts into cheers. It’s sickening to watch as they all hug him and congratulate him; banging their tankards against the table in order to create as much calamity as possible in celebration. It’s a barbaric display, and Damianos seems to be revelling in it; grinning brightly and shaking the hands of all the students who offers theirs. He even hugs one of the students; a boy who Laurent has seen Damianos beside every time he’s laid eyes on him, and Laurent swallows around the sickly lump in his throat at the sight of all the _adoration._ Around him, the Beauxbatons table erupts into chatter too, but it’s not celebration. It’s unadulterated hatred; mutterings of disgust as they watch Damianos walk to the front and accept the extended hand of the headteacher. Damianos shakes hand with his uncle, and his expression does not even falter.

“He murdered his nephew,” someone in front of him mutters, “he does not even look guilty.”

“How can Mr. de Vere shake his hand?” Another mutters, and Laurent’s lips quirk into a bitter smile. He does not think Uncle cares what Damianos did. Uncle did not love Auguste; Uncle does not love anyone.

Laurent’s heart beats frantically in his chest and Laurent resists the urge to claw at his own throat as his breathing quickens into an almost unbearable pace. Damianos drops Uncle’s hand, and then he is gone out of the hall too. But not before one last wave of his hand towards the Durmstrang table, of course. One last moment of basking in the glory of it all. Laurent grits his teeth, and forces himself to breathe once Damianos is gone.

Laurent relaxes somewhat then; he has nothing further to anticipate now that Damianos is out of the room. It is almost certain that Fleur will get declared at Beauxbatons’ champion, and then Laurent will be free to return to his room. Everyone around him mutters their wishes of luck towards Fleur and she grins at them all, tapping against her knees nervously. Laurent checks his watch, and lets himself think about how he will possibly get Damianos on his own. They do not even share classes, and Damianos will be busy preparing for the tournament. He will have to think of something to—

Laurent hears his name.

He blinks, and then everyone on the table is looking at him.

Laurent lifts his head. It is not just everyone on the Beauxbatons table. It is everyone in the Great Hall.

“Laurent de Vere,” the headteacher repeats, his voice weak and shaky. Laurent turns his attention to the front of the hall and realises, with an awful sinking feeling in his gut, that he is holding a piece of paper, charred from the goblet, in his hand.

Laurent feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, the frantic hammering of his heart, and—this isn’t possible—Laurent is not even old enough to—

“There must be some mistake,” Uncle says, and his voice carries through the whole hall. Laurent thinks he might be sick. “My nephew is only sixteen, he cannot enter—perhaps you are misreading it?”

“See for yourself,” the headteacher says, and hands the paper to his uncle. Laurent watches Uncle’s expression crumble into something unreadable, and Laurent thinks he’s going to be sick. “Laurent, where are you? Come up here.”

Shakily, Laurent forces himself to stand.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/llaurentofvere) and over on [tumblr](http://casxade.tumblr.com) too if you want to!  
> P.S to any of mine and emma's Dedicated readers of the ship of dreams (our yuri on ice fic) it will be updated within the next week or so; we've both been super busy, sorry!!


End file.
